


Betrayals

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark!Hermione, Drama, F/M, Gen, Multi, Romance, Smut, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Pack, Werewolves, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-10-03 20:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Pushed to her limits by under-appreciation, Hermione turns the weapon that is her intellect over to those who are at least honest about how they see her. Her simple proposition becomes complicated when she finds herself emotionally involved with two Death Eaters, and the not exactly unwilling plaything of an infamously savage werewolf. *dark!Hermione* (poly-fic) SPORADIC UPDATES





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is canon-divergent AU from the point of Ron and Harry trying to slip away from the Burrow to begin the Horcrux Hunt.
> 
> 2) Chapter lengths will vary, updates will be sporadic.
> 
> 3) I promise, Orias and Thorfinn will make their entrance in the second chapter.
> 
> * Orias Mulciber is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.
> 
> Fancasting: Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback; Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle; Brock O'Hurn as Orias Mulciber.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this work.

**Chapter One**

She had snapped; she was perfectly aware of this fact. Clearly, she thought, squaring her shoulders, her grip on her wand tight as she walked. Or perhaps stormed? Yes, stormed was a more fitting description for how she was moving, she decided.

Hermione Granger, called the brightest witch of her age—to her  _face_ —by two wizards she so greatly respected. Gryffindor House's Golden Girl. Top marks in her year,  _every_  year. Always the one to have some inspiration or just the right bit of knowledge to help at the right moment. In preparation for what the year ahead undoubtedly had in store for them, she'd even altered her own parents memories and sent them away so Voldemort's followers could not hope to get to her through them.

Other than swallowing hard just now, she showed no outward sign of emotion. She couldn't say precisely when the moment was that she felt the straw breaking her proverbial camel's back, yet it had happened all the same. She had always considered herself a strong person, and she didn't think strong people turned their morals upside-down in a blink over dozens of consecutive small slights. Wasn't there supposed to be some big breakdown moment? Something drastic that caused the sudden gear-change?

But then, she considered as the looming hedges of Malfoy Manor's front walk came into view, perhaps it could happen from all those small slights. Perhaps just one thing had pushed her over the edge. Something  _had_ to have happened, because she felt no remorse or fear about what she was here to do.

There was a tickle of nervous excitement through the pit of her stomach as she saw the whirling shift of smoke forming into dark cloaks further along the path. Death Eaters, rushing in her direction, their wands aimed at her. Her, this simple  _Mudblood_ witch, strolling toward them as though on pleasant afternoon walk, her weapon—though gripped tight—held down at her side.

Maybe it was Ron never taking seriously the things that were important to her. Always a clever quip or a laugh at her expense when he thought she was out of earshot, yet imagining he held some special place in her heart. And perhaps he had.  _Then_.

Or maybe it was Harry. Knowing full well all she'd done to save their skins since nearly the moment they'd met. Knowing full well of what she was capable and how they could not possibly have gotten this far without her . . . and yet somehow it had crossed his mind to leave her behind. He and Ron hunt for the Horcruxes without her? They were trying to protect  _her_? Honestly! After everything . . . .

She was the one least in need of protection, her blood status during an attempted coup by pure-blood elitists notwithstanding.

Maybe it was only that. That no matter what she did, those closest to her, those who should know better, always underestimated her. If Albus Dumbledore had ever pulled Harry aside and whispered, "By the way, I'm actually the real Merlin," Harry's response would've been to shrug and say, "Honestly, sir? I'm not sure anything surprises me, anymore." Yet, considering her as the most prepared, the most ready, the most valuable—sure, he was The Boy Who Lived, but she was The Girl Who Pulls That Boy's Arse From the Fire How Many Bloody Times?—that she should've been the one he thought to take with him, first, not Ron  _and then_  Hermione, 'because who can keep her away?' She always seemed to catch him off-guard.

Certainly, the idea of never ceasing to amaze someone was usually intended as a compliment. In practice, it was actually rather insulting.

Huh. She halted as the scrambling figures in black were nearly upon her, screaming at her to declare her purpose—without direct instructions, they were clueless what to do about a witch just strolling up to their current headquarters. Who would've thought her Achilles Heel would be constant under-valuing?

Voldemort would probably strike her dead sooner than listen, but honestly. She was so blinking tired of all of this rubbish. Her parents were safe, and her friends were so convinced they could do this  _without_  her aid. Perhaps it would be a blessing.

There was a flickering hope that she wouldn't regret the decision as she carefully and slowly lowered herself toward the ground to set down her wand. Standing just as slowly, she held up her hands in surrender.

"My name is Hermione Granger, you may also know me as 'Harry Potter's Mudblood'." She hated that term, but if she was doing this, she knew it was best to get comfortable with the title, now. The witch rolled her eyes at startled looks she knew were going around under those hoods. "I come here of my own volition, and I have business to discuss with the Dark Lord."

The sudden flurry of movement as they all sprang into action, once more, was nearly startling. They all wanted to be the first to grab hold of her—to be the one to drag her before him. But just as fast, two unsettlingly familiar figures broke through the mass of black cloaks.

Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape looked her over in shock. Well, Snape was shocked, while Malfoy appeared both shocked and mildly disgusted at her presence on his property.

As Lucius came up beside her and grabbed hold of her arm, Severus shook his head at her. She thought she should be aghast at seeing the man who'd killed Professor Dumbledore, but no. That was likely part of the whole  _snapping_  thing. She knew, logically, that there must've been some plan in place. Some plan jeopardized by Draco being unable to strike a killing blow, forcing Snape to step in and pick up the slack. Severus Snape was many things, stupid or short-sighted nowhere among them. Or, hell, he might've even done it simply to keep that mad bat Bellatrix from murdering her own nephew over his moment of hesitation.

"Miss Granger, what business could you possibly have with the Dark Lord?"

Holding her former professor's gaze for barely a few seconds, she nodded toward her discarded wand. "That'd be between me and him, now, wouldn't it?" Before either of them could answer, she turned her full attention on Lucius' face—his scruffy, shadowed, exhausted face. "And aren't you just a dreadful sight, Mr. Malfoy? What happened? Displeased him, did you?"

The wizard's lips peeled back from his teeth in a menacing expression, but the move to raise his wand was halted. Snape had clamped his hand over the other Death Eater's shoulder and leaned close to whisper in his ear. Though Hermione could still hear him, she pretended it was just a bit too low for her to make out his words clearly—never knew when anything she was thought _not_  to have seen or heard might come in useful.

"Calm yourself, Lucius," the jet-haired man said, his own expression unreadable. "He may yet see wisdom in having her here."

"Fine." Malfoy spat the word out from between clenched teeth as he tightened the already painful grip on her arm—woo,  _lots_  of pent up anger, there, she thought with an inward laugh—and started walking her toward the doors.

She could sense the weight of the other Death Eaters' gazes on her as they parted for their Dark Lord's obviously disgraced second and this strange  _delivery._  She could feel Snape's attention on the back of her head, puzzling over her bizarre actions, no doubt.

Hermione wondered, briefly, if she should put on a show of being mad. Hum a little tune, look around at everything—the pale stones of the manor's exterior, the jarring contrast of the dark wood once inside the ancient, massive pure-blood home, the Dark witches and wizards standing about and gaping at her as she was pulled past them—in wide-eyed, childlike wonderment. But that was boredom with this ridiculous need for show talking. She was perfectly sane, she'd simply had more than she could handle and something emotional in her had broken under the weight, not something intellectual. Of course, mad people could also be brilliant, one simply needed to look at Voldemort to know that, but she was sidetracking.

Yet, as she was pulled into a dining room with a roaring fire going at the far end of the room and a massive table set with more places than she could count in a glance, she considered that pure-bloods, whether they realized it or not, made a show of  _everything_ —even when there was little time to waste, no one to make a show  _for_ , or nothing impressive about what they were doing. Her brows drew upward a bit at that. What a bunch of bloody drama queens they were, the lot of them! Hell, every conversation with Lucius Malfoy was like watching a stage performance. It was almost amusing.

_So_  almost amusing that by the time she found herself standing before Dark Lord Voldemort, who blinked in a mix of surprise and confusion at the girl in front of him, she nearly laughed. Yes, there he was. The biggest drama queen of them all!

But the privately humorous moment was cut annoyingly short as Lucius used his hand on her arm to force her to her knees at the feet of their leader.

"What is the meaning of—?"

"Forgive the intrusion, My Lord," Snape said with a sweeping bow. "This is Hermione Granger, she claims to have business with you."

"Granger?" The old, snake-faced _thing_  seated at the head of the table began in a hissing murmur. His unnerving gaze moved over her in appraisal. "Potter's Mudblood?"

Her only response to that was a tired roll of her eyes. She could swear his naked brows had jumped in another show of surprise at how indifferent she seemed about all this.

A smirk twisting his mouth, he stood and stepped closer to her. There was a sudden mad, twittering voice on the edge of her hearing, but Voldemort held up his hand, and an immediate silence fell. Hermione had recognized the voice the moment the sound touched her ears. Bellatrix Lestrange. And yet, as completely barmy as she was . . . he had quieted her with a gesture. Hermione could not help but wonder if that was a sign of how much control he had over that mad cow of a witch, or just how deep Bellatrix's warped sense of devotion to him ran.

Either way it was impressive.

"What business could you possibly have to discuss with me?"

"A proposition."

The Dark Lord barked out a laugh at that. "Oh, really? Hmm. This should be interesting. Well, Mudblood? Go on."

She wondered if he was calling her that because he didn't feel it necessary to afford her the simple courtesy of using her name, or because he wanted to see if she would react to the term. "Not to sound arrogant,  _Lord_ , but anyone in this room who's had previous dealings with me can tell you that, even for my age, I have one of the most formidable minds in all of Wizarding Britain."

Again, Voldemort smirked, shaking his head. "Well, I must say I have heard that Potter's exploits would be a tad . . . lacking if not for your hand in things." His wistful tone turned scathing and forceful in a blink as he leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. "Things such as his continued survival! Tell me why I should not simply end you here and now?"

"Why end the very intellect that has caused you trouble when you could use it, instead?"

His inhuman eyes narrowed as he held her gaze. "You propose an alliance, is that it? I could simply use you and then kill you, you realize. I could force cooperation from you. That I've let you live this long to have this conversation should be considered generous."

The witch shook her head. "You're too interested in winning. Too interested in coming to power to risk losing a potential asset."

Straightening, he let out a  _hmph_. A pensive expression touching his serpentine features, he reached out, coiling a lock of her unruly hair around one of his bony fingers, as though examining it. "You certainly are sure of yourself. Tell me again why I can't simply force knowledge from your head?"

She couldn't help a grin, then. And oh, yes, she was  _well_  aware of all the eyebrows in the room that had jumped up foreheads at her look of amusement. "Because you can't read me. I'd dare you to try but that seems a bit childish, don't you think? Since the moment I learned I was a witch, I've studied magic more intensely than every student in Hogwarts  _combined_. I've been sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library since nearly my first day. Did you think I wouldn't be certain I was  _well_ practiced at Occlumency before barging over here?"

"Well, then, torture?" he suggested in a causal tone, as though they were friends discussing which new local restaurant to try for dinner.

Hermione sucked her teeth as she considered that. Really, it was a miracle he was entertaining her this long, but that was a drama queen for you. "Too risky. If I'm strong willed—which you can't know for certain whether I am or not—you might drive me mad, rendering any information or help I could grant useless, _or_  you could kill me. Either way, you lose what I have to offer."

"Veritaserum?"

She shrugged. "Only if you plan on _never_  using my brain for anything more than rounds of questions-and-answers."

"You  _are_ good," he said with a grin. "Severus, what do you think?"

"I think I would be suspicious of her motives."

"Indeed."

"Motives?" She cast a disgusted glance upward at Snape before she continued. "How about simple, but continued— _aggravated_ —under-appreciation? To be constantly counted on for my intellect, but never afforded the respect those who are supposed to love and support me should naturally have after everything we've been through together?"

She could sense the room was about to burst out in surprised laughter if she thought to come _here_  for respect and appreciation and rushed on. "You all may see me as lesser, but you're  _honest_  about it. You would say it to my face. You I  _expect_  to underestimate me or undervalue me. My motivation is that I've simply had enough of being used by the people who smile in my face and call me their friend. Someone like me is bound to be valued _only_  for what they bring to the table at a time like this. And so if I'm going to be used for my mind, I'd rather at least not have my intelligence insulted while we're at it."

"Does this ring true?" Again, Voldemort looked to Snape for an answer.

"Actually, under the proper circumstances, this type of thinking is completely inline with Miss Granger's history. Her friends, from what I've gathered over the years, have always undervalued her competence and capabilities. If she truly broke under the weight of expectations and lack of consideration, as she claims, then her presence here and the reasons she's given make perfect sense."

She lost the thread of Severus' words for a moment, there. Hermione wasn't certain what it was, or why, but she suddenly felt a zing through her system. Some little ripple of awareness. The sensation made her want to pull her gaze from Voldemort's and look about, now, to find the source, but she didn't dare look away from him.

The Dark Lord tapped his finger against his chin as he weighed all this. "How do I know this isn't some sort of trap?"

"You don't, but  _that_ you could use veritaserum to discern for yourself."

He nodded. Something in his countenance told her this was drawing to an end. "Tell me, this proposition of yours . . . your aid in winning the War in exchange for what?"

Her chestnut-brown eyes took on a dull quality just then. "Freedom. You win, I get  _far_ away from Wizarding Britain."

"I could simply end you once victory is assured."

"Oh, make no mistake, I wouldn't for a moment trust you. Once victory is in sight, I  _will_ run. I would say I've gotten fairly good at running and hiding over the years, thanks to you, actually. You could end me, but you'd have to catch me, first, and you'll be too busy implementing your new world order to expend the manpower or resources to go searching for one little witch."

"You really are impressive. Pity about the blood status, though."

"You would not be the first person to say so."

Voldemort actually snickered at that. "Very well. Severus, a fresh batch of veritaserum, if you would. And in the meanwhile as the potion is prepared, she shall enjoy the accommodations of the manor's cellar. Lucius, take her away."

Lucius, unexpectedly reticent during that entire exchange, pulled Hermione to her feet and turned her toward the doors. As he started walking her across the floor, she felt that odd little zing, again.

She didn't want to make a fuss about it, as she had no idea what it meant, but she looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze met that of a man she'd never met before, but she knew him all the same, from his pre-war Wanted posters.  _Fenrir Greyback_. She had no idea he was so . . . well, imposing of stature was _one_  way to put it. But their eyes had locked for a moment as he approached the Dark Lord.

Malfoy dragged her along, and she was forced to snap her head forward to keep from tripping over her own two feet. The last thing she'd seen was Greyback staring into her eyes as he knelt beside the Dark Lord's chair and related something in hushed tones. Something to do with her? Or had she simply caught the werewolf's eye?

Telling herself that sensation had only been the feeling of being watched, she gave her head a shake and continued along. Bloody hell, she probably had a hand-shaped bruise on her arm by now from this, she couldn't feel anything below her elbow. She was certain there was a joke in there, somewhere, about Lucius Malfoy's grip.

She never saw how Voldemort's gaze had shot right to her retreating form as he listened to Greyback. Never heard the quiet chuckle that rumbled out of him as he nodded and said, "Really? Well, now, isn't she one interesting little Mudblood?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione looked over her shoulder at the sound of the gated entrance at the top of the stairs scraping open. Multiple sets of footfalls started downward, but she only shrugged and went back to her examination of the warded doors at the far end of the cellar. If they hadn't wanted her to explore—after all, it was hardly as though her reputation  _hadn't_  preceded her—they should've shackled her ankles to the floor.

_What could these be hiding?_  she wondered with a curious grin.

Then she heard the voices, echoing down the stairwell long before the men emerged. Deep voices, impressively so . . . . Enough to pique her curiosity and cause her to turn on her heel to face the commotion.

Her brows shot up at the two massive blond wizards who came stumbling out of the suddenly too-narrow seeming stairwell. How they managed to squeeze through shoulder-to-shoulder was beyond her. They could pass for brothers, though she had the distinct impression they were not. The only obvious difference between them—all broad shoulders and long, dark-gold hair—was that the bearded one was several centimeters taller.

She did, however, recognize the wizard who followed them, his wand trained on the pair. Rodolphus Lestrange looked exhausted just from dealing with these two.

"Oh," the bearded one said, his naturally booming voice echoing harshly off the cellar walls. "Tha's the one everyone's in a tizzy about upstairs?"

Ooh, and they were drunk! Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised that the cellar also doubled as a Death Eater drunk-tank. That's what happened in actual prisons, too, wasn't it?

"What? Did I wander into the Viking corner of the manor?"

Laughing, the clean-shaven one answered. "Well, after hearing the way you strolled in here, all bad arse and not afraid to die, like a right tiny Valkyrie, it'd be right where you belong, wouldn't it?" He squinted his bleary eyes, focusing on her face. "Wait . . . I know you . . . ."

Hermione frowned in thought as she met his gaze. "Thorfinn Rowle?"

His drinking-buddy narrowed his eyes. "You already know her? Not fair."

Rowle snickered shrugging as he took a step toward her, but a hissed command from Rodolphus halted him in his tracks. "I's not a big deal. Tell 'im how we know each other, Sunshine."

With a sigh, Hermione smirked. Huh, he was as dashing as she recalled—not to mention notably taller and boarder than he'd been as a visiting seventh year. And perhaps even a little adorable inebriated like this. "We sometimes studied together when Hogwarts was hosting Durmstrang during the Tri-wizard Tournament."

His brows inching upward, he tutted at her. "You forgot the part where we became snogging-buddies after you called it quits with Krum."

Uttering an unattractive groan in the back of her throat, she rolled her eyes. Of course he'd bring that up.

The bearded one let out a mock scandalized gasp before bursting out in peels of laughter at his own silliness.

"I'm going to leave you three alone," Rodolphus said, hurrying to finish before either of the drunken Vikings could suggest anything. "But, if either of you so much as lay a finger on this one,  _Bellatrix_  has permission to flay you alive. Dark Lord's orders."

Not seeming satisfied with the sharp command, the one with the beard called after Rolophus, "Really? Not even the tip of one finger?"

"Not a single bloody touch, Mulciber."

"Well, wha' if I don't put my finger _on_  her? What about if I were just to—?"

"No! And if you ask one thing more, I'm going to hit you with a stinging hex that'll make you wish you'd never been born."

If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd swear the massive wizard was sulking as they listened to Rodolphus slam the door at the top of the steps. Her brow furrowed. "What exactly were you planning on doing with your fing—?"

Sooner than she could finish her question, both Rowle and the other one turned to look at her, their brows high on their foreheads.

"Oh, right." She shrugged and cleared her throat. "Then it looks like Thorfinn's not the only Death Eater with a libido, after all."

Just as comical as their mirrored expression of questioning only a few seconds ago was the way the both slumped at her statement.

Thorfinn frowned. "Why would you even think Death Eaters don't—?"

"Well, I didn't necessarily think  _anything_ , per se, but . . . ." She crinkled the bridge of her nose as she nodded toward the floor above their heads. "Do seem to be a _lot_  of frustrated people around here."

Mulciber grinned, taking a step toward the witch. "I'm sure you could probably help a bit with that, Sunshine, was it?"

She let out a surprised laugh at his forwardness. Not that what he was suggesting seemed all that bad of an idea. Well, then! Seemed her ability to give a shit had taken with it her inhibitions about  _other_ matters when it fled.

Thorfinn clamped a hand over Mulciber's shoulder. "Down, man!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she held the taller man's gaze. "My name's Hermione Granger, thanks very much. This one just calls me 'Sunshine' as joke about my fiery temper. What is  _your_  name? Or shall I just refer to you as 'that mountain over there?'"

He chuckled raising his hand to scratch at his beard in thought. "Well, I do like the ring of that . . . . I'm Orias."

"Hmm." She gave Thorfinn an appraising once-over, and then repeated the look with Orias. "I'll have to remember that."

Her change in demeanor was just off-putting enough to sober Thorfinn a little bit. Other than the years between then and now, she was so changed from the girl he remembered.

His gaze narrowed as he returned her appraising look. "What happened to you?"

With an emotionless smile, she shrugged. "I broke."

He was surprised that those two little words actually stung him. Not because he cared which side of the War she was on—though with her brains, he imagined their side now had one  _hell_ of an advantage—but he'd liked that girl he remembered. Whether or not he'd care at all for the women who'd grown from the fracturing of that girl was another story.

That emotionless smile of hers just as quick melted into a thoughtful frown as she gave another shrug. "Then again, I wasn't exactly the flowers and sunlight creature most of my friends liked to think I was to start with, so . . . maybe it's not such a surprise I ended up here with you lot, after all."

Orias folded his long legs under himself and fell into a sitting position on the cold stone floor. The motion was surprisingly fluid for both his stature, and the fact that he smelled a bit like he'd bathed in ale. "Oh, really? Le's have an example, then, shall we? Heri . . . Hermy? Heron? Sorry, what was it again? My memory's shit when I'm pissed."

Her brows shot up as she laughed. "I suspect it's not to great when you're sober, either."

"Oy!"

Thorfinn snickered and shook his head.

Orias frowned like a giant, petulant toddler.

Nodding, she decided to take pity on him. There was a chance he'd remember this when he was possessed of his full faculties, and not knowing what sort of person he typically was, she thought perhaps it was best not to mock him . . . too much.

"An example?" she repeated, nodding. "Okay. When I was twelve years old—this was toward the end of my first year at Hogwarts—we needed to distract one of our professors during a Quidditch game. I offered to be the one to do it. My brilliant idea? Sneak up, under the bleachers where he was sitting, and set his robes ablaze."

"You set your teacher on fire?"

The witch held up her hands. "It was literally the first thought that came to mind, so I just went with it. But seriously? What twelve year old girl comes up with  _that_  as their Plan A?"

Thorfinn puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled from between pursed lips. And he thought he was the one with a penchant for setting things aflame.

Orias, on the other hand, looked enthralled. Propping his elbows on his knees and curling his fists under his chin, he offered her a wide grin—that she thought he _had_ to know looked incredibly goofy on such an impressively built creature as he—and nodded. "G' on. Give us another one!"

A lopsided frown curving his mouth, Thorfinn looked at the other man. "You're just too much sometimes, you know that?"

Scoffing, Orias shook his head, but didn't take his eyes from the young woman standing before him. "I'm sure this one here thinks I'm just enough. Don't you, Little Witch?"

Hermione's eyebrows pinched together as she bit back a smile. "Believe you and I would need to get to know one another a lot better before I could answer that, now wouldn't we?"

She could hear the sound of Thorfinn slapping his hand against his forehead in the background, even as that goofy grin of Orias' widened. "I like the way you think!"

"Thank you, I am often told my brain is one of my best features."

"Really? Well, then, I should say—"

"Oh my God, man,  _stop_!" Thorfinn's words were tinged with amusement as he doubled over, resting his hands on his knees as though trying to catch his breath. He let out a boisterous laugh and shook his head. "Can't lay a finger on the woman and you insist on flirting? You like having to take matters, let's say, 'into your own hands' then, I suppose?"

She covered her mouth with her fingers to stifle a shocked laugh at his meaning—she'd ignore that the mental picture that went with it set off an instant blush in her cheeks.

Orias, to his credit, didn't look the slightest bit flustered at the implication. "If we're being totally honest, I'd much rather she take my 'matters' into her hands, but if one is pressed for companionship—"

Hermione didn't know if it was good timing or bad that the gated door at the top of the staircase screeched open, just then, cutting into the mountain of a wizard's declaration. She felt the smile fade from her lips as she listened to the approaching footfalls.

There went that strange little zing through her, like what had happened upstairs just before Lucius Malfoy had dragged her away. Swallowing hard, she knew the change in her demeanor was reflected in her expression—could feel the way Orias and Thorfinn glanced from her, to the mouth of the stairwell, and back a few times, as they waited for the person to emerge.

Fenrir Greyback stepped out, his gaze fixing on each of the Death Eaters, in turn, before landing on her. Those amber eyes locking on hers, he crooked his finger at her, beckoning her closer.

She didn't know that she liked the way this caused Orias and Thorfinn to exchange a look. But she felt oddly like she couldn't help herself, either, as she followed the werewolf's gestured instruction.

When she came to a halt before him, Fenrir only stood in silence, watching her face for a few painfully long heartbeats. Then, all at once, it seemed, she found herself pressed close to him, one of his arms around to hold her to him as he bent toward her. The hand of his other arm had curled into her hair, pulling back her head.

His face was pressed into the crook of her neck as he took a long sniff of her skin.

She pretended the rush of his breath against her throat didn't send a sweet little shiver through her as she pressed her palms against his chest, trying to put some distance between them.

Just as fast as he'd taken hold of her, though, he released her. Her scramble to get away from him had her stumbling backward a few steps before she managed to get her footing.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" she demanded, completely bewildered by his actions.

"Making sure those two did as they were told and kept their distance from you." In way of clarification, Fenrir flared his nostrils and inhaled sharply.

He'd been searching for their scent on her. Nodding, she cleared her throat. "I see. You know, the Dark Lord is about to make me take veritaserum. He could've just asked me."

"While that may be true, Sweetness, if I waited that long, Bellatrix would be the one to get to make them pay for it if they disobeyed, and I wasn't about to let that sort of fun go to her."

She could hear both of the blond wizards behind them sputtering confused questions about that. Clearly, the werewolf's aggression toward them wasn't all that common if they were surprised over his words.

She backpedaled another step, giving Fenrir Greyback a once-over. It was all there in the way he was looking at her. "This isn't about them, or about the Dark Lord's orders at all, is it? It's about  _me_?"

He winked, smirking at her. "I'll fill you in when we're away from prying ears."

"Oy," Orias shouted, even as Fenrir slipped his fingers around the back of the witch's neck and started leading her up the stairs. "You better not mean that the way it sounded."

Hermione hadn't felt fear, not truly, anyway, the entire while she'd been in the manor. Not until now, that is.

As Fenrir guided her through the doorway and slammed the gate shut, he turned and pulled her with him to start down the corridor. Yet, it seemed this was only a pretense, allowing him to look about and check if they were truly alone.

Sooner than she could blink, Hermione found her back against the wall. Fenrir pinned her body with his own as he stared down into her face. She hated that she couldn't understand how her fear melted away in favor of a series of sudden, involuntary reactions to him . . . . The way her skin had warmed and she could feel the thrum of her pulse in her veins. There was a giddy ripple in the pit of her stomach, like butterflies in anticipation of a first kiss that contradicted wildly with the sweet, subtle thudding between her thighs.

"Of course it's about you, Sweetness," he said, finally answering her question. He granted her a feral grin while he lowered his gaze to trace over her lips. "It's about the Dark Lord finally giving me something I want. It's about the very thought of letting anyone else have you before  _me_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

She felt daring, emboldened by what she'd already done so far, and by where she stood—both metaphorically and physically. The possessive gleam in the werewolf's gaze as it swept up from her mouth to lock on her eyes, once more, sent a shivery zing across her skin that, like so many things she felt in his closeness, she didn't quite understand. But she did like it. She did want more of it.

Reminding herself to breathe, she was distinctly aware of her own voice spilling out in a soft, rumbling whisper. "Did the Dark Lord say that? That you could have me?"

Fenrir shrugged, smirking when the movement caused her to jump just a bit in her place wedged between his body and the wall at her back. "He did. If you answer every question put to you to his satisfaction, he said I can play with you. Provided I don't do anything that mucks up your usefulness to him."

There was something in the purring tone of his voice that told her this wasn't a threat. She wasn't sure why, but she  _knew_ his words weren't meant to intimidate. His intent wasn't to hurt her . . . well, at least no more than would naturally be involved in a bout of rough—

She cut off her own thought, aware that with his canine senses, he could probably already smell the absolute havoc the simple nearness of him was stirring up inside her. "And if I don't answer to his satisfaction?"

Again, the werewolf shrugged. "He's a little less concerned about your usefulness to him."

Narrowing her eyes in an appraising look, Hermione laughed. God, the War really had broken her, hadn't it? Just yesterday she'd have been petrified and angry to find herself in this very spot. Now? Well, now she was intrigued . . . and maybe wondering just a little bit what it would feel like to have his mouth on her skin.

"But  _you_  wouldn't do anything to inhibit a second go, or even a third, now would you?"

"Second or third?" He tipped his head to one side as his eyes held hers, his hands clamping over her hips. "So you've already consigned yourself to the idea of me having you?"

She forced a gulp down her throat, cognizant of his fingers trailing down. Of them slipping around the back of one of her thighs and lifting her leg to the side, of the feel of him pressing himself tight against her. Her breath thundered out of her lungs and she thought she might've even let a quiet little moan escape. The movement had her heart rattling her ribcage and that sweet aching pulse tearing through her.

She had to struggle to find her voice as he moved away and pressed into her again and again. "Maybe I have. Something . . . something's telling me to give into you. Why? And why do you want me so much?"

Watching her face, the amber hue of his eyes brightened, sharpening to an incandescent gold and her breath caught in her throat.  _There_  it was. She knew. Somehow, deep down, that little growling whisper was telling her.

It was another thing she couldn't quite make sense of, the way the sight of his eyes changing like that sent a picture of wolves—running, hunting, mating—through her head. As he continued rocking his pelvis against her, she found herself lifting her other leg to wrap around his hip, letting the wall at the back support her weight while he moved.

She also had no idea how she could talk, let alone think, with the deliciously hard bulge beneath his robes grinding between her thighs like this, yet she managed. "I'm . . . somehow I'm like you."

"Just a little. Probably something in your ancestry." Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, his voice dropping to a gravelly pitch, "You've no idea how delicious you smell when you want me like this. I can only imagine how much more delectable you'll be when I'm making you come."

An inhuman sound of shock choked out of her then, and he chuckled.

He pulled back enough to meet her gaze as he continued. "Don't worry, Sweetness. I'll be sure to lick you clean, and you'll  _love_  every second of it."

The mental image that accompanied his statement made her shiver against him. She wasn't certain she'd ever wanted a man this much in her life! She didn't even know him beyond his reputation as the most savage werewolf in Wizarding Britain, and here she was with her body _demanding_  that she let him tear off her clothes and take her any way he wanted her.

"So, what's say we get you in there so you can answer the Dark Lord's ruddy questions? Sooner he's satisfied, sooner I can see  _you'll_ be, hmm?"

There was just one thing she had to do before she nodded her agreement. Clamping her hands around the back of his neck, she pressed her hips to the wall, lifting herself as he rocked hard against her one final time. The added pressure caused sweet tremors to wrack both of them.

His breathing a bit heavy, he watched her face expectantly. "That a yes?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded as she lowered her feet to the floor. "Most absolute _yes_  I've ever given in my life."

* * *

She was sure, just yesterday, she'd have been unnerved at the set up in the cavernous dining room of Malfoy Manor. With Voldemort seated in a strangely languid posture given his cold and bony countenance at the center of the long table and his followers gathered around him, the scene looked like some dark and warped version of The Last Supper.

Fenrir had done a fantastic job of appearing to drag her in by the back of her neck and marching her through the room—otherwise silent at their entrance, save for the sounds of their footfalls. He pulled her to a halt directly before the Dark Lord, giving as much of a bow as he could manage while keeping hold of her.

For several heartbeats, it seemed not a soul in the room so much as breathed. Hermione didn't know what, precisely, Voldemort was waiting for—if it was for her to flinch, or waver, if he was waiting for her to offer some show of fealty, they'd be here a  _long_ while—but she simply stared back at him.

From the corner of her eye, she recognized the Malfoys, though she didn't dare take her bored gaze from the Dark Lord's. Draco, in particular, stood out to her from where he was seated between his parents. Probably because he was the most familiar thing in her vicinity. She imagined Lucius had explained her presence to his son, but from the way his jaw was open just a little as he stared in her direction, she could tell that he still couldn't quite wrap his head around her, of  _all_ people, crossing battle lines.

Apparently, whatever Voldemort was looking for he got, because he nodded. Waving his lifeless-seeming hand toward the end of the table, he said, "Severus, if you would?"

With a nod, her former professor rose from his seat. Rounding the table, he came to stand before her. He appeared to study her features as he uncapped the bottle of veritaserum. Well, now, everyone was just  _so_  interested in studying her face today, weren't they?

She didn't know if he thought he was keeping her calm and focused, or simply couldn't help himself, but Fenrir was using the cover of her wild hair over his hand around her neck to stroke his fingertips and the edge of his nails along the pulse in her throat. Though, there was a third option, and it was that he was doing it to keep her primed and on-edge for what he had planned for her after she got clear of Voldemort's interrogation.

"Miss Granger, if you would?" Severus held the open bottle out for her to take. She found it an odd courtesy, likely prompted by the grudging respect he had for her as one of his best students. That, or he hadn't wanted to anger the werewolf holding her by trying to force her to drink it, himself.

So many possible reasons behind every look and action happening around her. So . . . interesting, all of it. Every single interaction, every breath, seemed to have something more to it, something not intended to be read, but there, not the less.

Good Lord, but evil people were so intriguing, weren't they?

With a smirk, she took the bottle and nodded. "Of course, Professor. How much d'you recommend for duration of this questioning?"

He arched a brow at her inquiry, clearly surprised that she would still seek his expertise. But then, she'd always been wise for her years, and she'd asked a very pointed question. Clearly, she didn't want to give anyone present the opportunity to take advantage of any left over time during which she'd be unwillingly truthful.

He didn't know if he loathed her foresight and cleverness, or admired it.

Severus looked to the Dark Lord for permission to answer. Only when Voldemort nodded with a dismissive wave of his hand, did he return his attention to the young witch.

"Two sips should suffice."

Hermione took the opportunity to mirror his expression from a moment ago, arching her brow at him. She held his gaze for a moment, waiting for that gleam of understanding to dawn in his eyes. Once it did, she nodded and took her two sips.

She'd waited for him to realize what her look meant—that if he was lying to her, if just one sip would've done it and she was left in that state of unwilling honesty for longer than strictly necessary, she'd make sure he paid for his deception. When an opportunity presented itself, of course.

"Your full name?"

Hermione's brow furrowed at the simplicity of the first question launched at her. Seemed a bit like when she watched Muggle crime dramas with her parents and the interrogator was trying to set a baseline response for a polygraph machine. Odd, given they could not actually gauge her internal response here. Then again, it was probably something he wanted to verify should he decide her name was needed in use of magical tracking.

'Hermione Jean Granger."

Smirking, Voldemort nodded. "Date of birth?"

"Nineteenth of September, 1979."

"And you want to see your friend Harry Potter dead?"

With a shrug, she frowned, seeming unfazed by the stark jump in topic. "No, not particularly."

A hubbub went up around the table at her answer, but given her bland tone and her lack of visible reaction, she thought, Voldemort held up a silencing hand. He knew the difference, he had to.

"But you want him to lose this war?"

Her brows pinched together as she sighed. Nope, he didn't get it. Yes, she felt like she had something to prove, but that wasn't the heart of it. He hadn't listened at all when she'd been dragged before him the first time.

"I want to be where my capabilities are put to use without any pretense, I don't really care who wins. I only know that having me on your sides increases your odds  _dramatically_."

"And how do I know this isn't a trap?" he asked, repeating exactly the question for which she'd suggested the veritaserum.

Though she expected it, she still granted him a tired eye-roll as she answered. "Because you already realize that I'm too smart to be that  _stupid_. If you even think I'm betraying you for a moment, you won't hesitate to have me killed, or tortured into madness."

"Is that incentive enough to keep your loyalty, Mudblood?"

"Yes."

Voldemort eyed her for a moment before his thin lips twisted in an amused half-smile. He seemed to enjoy her lengthier responses. "Elaborate, if you would?"

"Elaborate? Well, seeing as I rather enjoy my sanity and am not quite as ready to die as I thought when I walked in here? I should say my betraying you is not likely." She glanced around the room, careful not to move her head too much so that Greyback's grip on her neck looked genuine—veritaserum secured truth of words, not actions. "The rest of your lackeys? I couldn't say for sure. The merit of my loyalty to them, individually, would have to be measured  _individually_. Though, if I'm being wholly honest—which, let's face it, I can't exactly help right now—I'd probably be loyal to Draco, sheerly based on the bonding of academic rivalry. Greyback, because he explained something of my lineage to me, and I'd feel obligated to protect a werewolf. And probably Professor Snape, because even though I still haven't quite forgiven him for killing Dumbledore, we do share a grudging respect as former student and teacher."

By the time she finished babbling, Voldemort's naked brows were high on his forehead. That was certainly an elaboration. He noted her gaze roaming about as though curious to see the reactions of his followers, though not wholly interested in anything they might show her.

"Oh, Draco, don't look so surprised. I may dislike you to my very core, but I've  _always_ respected your intellect and cleverness."

The Dark Lord actually had to bite back a laugh at her unprompted comment. Keeping his humor at the situation tightly reined, he said, "And, for the last question. I ask that you repeat what you told me earlier. What is it you want out of this?"

"Freedom."

"And if I refuse to grant it?"

"Then I will run. Somehow, some way, I will run. And you will  _never_  find me." Arching her brow at him as she had with Severus, she tacked on, "And now you know _I_  believe I can do exactly that. In the days to come, you're going to understand. You're going to realize that if I say I 'can' do something, then I  _make_ it true."

His dead eyes narrowing in an appraising look, he considered the young witch quite seriously for a few seconds. Oh, yes. Under the right circumstances, this creature would be a truly terrifying force.

And she had just handed herself over to him.

Stroking his chin, he nodded. "Your proposition is accepted. You are loyal to me, anything I demand you _will_  do, without question."

"Yes." She had a little trouble with it, but she managed to make herself say, "My Lord," without there being too much of a bad taste left in her mouth. Huh. She'd thought her first time uttering those words would feel like she'd just gargled battery acid.

"You may take her away, now, Greyback."

A feral grin curving his lips, the werewolf tightened his hold on her neck—firm, but not as rough as he was making it look. "With pleasure, My Lord."

He turned Hermione and started mock-dragging her from the room. "Thought that would never end," he murmured for her ears, only, sending a flush of heat through her as his tone easily brought back the little taste of what to expect from him that he'd given her in the corridor.

She could hear a few voices laughing behind her as Voldemort called out, "Do remember not to play with her  _too_ roughly." Though, she knew, somehow, that if she looked back, she would see at least two of the people not sharing in that laughter would be Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy.

Perhaps there  _was_  something to be said for loyalty—even in this den of almost-literal vipers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Wait a moment," the witch said, raising herself up on her elbows to look over at Fenrir, sprawled across the bed on his stomach as they caught their breath. But dear  _Lord_ , the naked werewolf made for a lovely sight as he turned his head to lay his cheek against the mattress, meeting her gaze.

"Hmm?" The sound of curiosity escaped his throat and he grinned lazily.

"Back down in the corridor, when you first brought me out of the cellar." She rolled over to mimic his position, sprawling on her stomach beside him before she continued. "You said you wanted to have me  _first_. You expect me to shag multiple parties, then?" She let it go unsaid that he could've just as easily meant that there were other parties intent on shagging her, with or without her say-so. She very much doubted Death Eaters had any compunction about taking someone they wanted against that someone's will.

He shrugged, lifting himself to balance his weight on his arms as he continued holding her gaze. "I'm feral, not dense, Sweetness. I know those two down in the cellar took an interest in you. I could smell that the feeling was mutual."

"Funny, and here I thought you seemed the possessive sort."

Fenrir watched her expression for a long moment. She seemed genuinely curious about his intentions. Well, that was refreshing. Most everyone in this bloody place didn't give a flying fuck what a werewolf thought.

Sighing, he pulled himself to sit up, not-so-secretly relishing the way she let her gaze roam his naked form as he moved. "You know this army I'm building for the Dark Lord?"

Hermione nodded. "I am familiar with the rumors of its existence."

He shook his head, snickering. "Well, that's all it is. A fighting force I'm cobbling together for  _him_. Werewolves are usually solitary creatures. If they were a cohesive unit, like a pack? I'd be an alpha. Damn powerful one, too. But . . . ." Sucking his teeth, he looked away with a pensive gleam in his eyes. "Hasn't been a pack throughout the whole of the Wizarding world in centuries."

Her brow furrowed at the revelation. In all her studies, she'd never come across mention of werewolves having packs, not even in some distant past. She had thought the very idea no more than a fabrication of modern popular culture. If the Wizarding world had neglected to include this information in research materials about the lycanthropy curse, that could only mean one thing.

"You might be the only person who knows that pack-bonding between werewolves is even possible. That information doesn't appear anywhere, and I  _have_  looked. The Wizarding community of old must've been afraid of werewolves existing as pack animals." She nodded to her own thinking as she rolled to lay on her side, deliberately exposing herself to his eyes. "They  _erased_  part of werewolf history so that victims of the lycanthropy curse wouldn't have any idea packs had ever been anything more than a myth—so they would never have any reason to think being part of one made sense!"

Fenrir yelped out a pleading growl and leaned close, his mouth capturing hers in a brutal, hungry kiss. Pulling back, he flicked his gaze over her face. "You've  _no_ idea how sexy your brain is."

Feeling prompted by the werewolf's praise—there it was, stated plainly, recognition for her mind, acknowledgement that it  _was_  an attractive trait, not simply something useful from time to time, but otherwise just bothersome and boring to those around her—she smiled even as her teeth sank into her lower lip. She reached toward him, feeling particularly rewarded when he let out another growl at her fingers circling his cock.

Flicking his attention down to her hand as she started stroking over him—from her movements, he could guess she didn't have very much experience with this, but her curiosity and eagerness made up for her lack of practical knowledge—he wrapped his hand around hers, guiding her movements. If she was willing to be instructed, all the better.

"Should I go on?" he asked, his words slipping out in a gravelly whisper.

A half-smile curved her lips as she nodded. There was something so . . .  _God_ , she didn't even have a word for it, in the way he coaxed her fingers beneath his. And dear Lord, he wanted to carry on a conversation while they did this? How  _perfect_  was he for a witch like her? Well, the fact that once a month he turned into a savage beast aside, of course.

He watched the combined motion of their hands over him as he continued. "Did you notice how those two reacted to me threatening them?"

Again, she nodded. "They were shocked."

Fenrir let his head fall back, a groan working its way out of his throat. "That's because they're the only two in this place I actually get on with okay."

She inched closer to him for better leverage, following his guidance as he pressed the tips of her fingers against the sensitive underside as they moved together. "That doesn't happen often?"

Chuckling, he breathed out a humming growl. "Not ever, actually. There's a natural camaraderie there, though. And I think that . . . ." Growling once more, he started rocking his hips under their ministrations. "I think that natural chemistry's the key that's been missing."

"You think that's why you couldn't pack-bond with any of the ones you turned for the Dark Lord?" Seeing him get so into it, she felt her breath catch in her throat, felt the sweet, damp warmth between her thighs in response. "You mean to bite those two? Rowle and Mulciber?"

His nostrils flared and he dropped his head to meet her gaze. She knew he could smell the state she was in. Gently prying her fingers away, he reached for her. Gripping his hands around her hips, he lifted her easily.

Hermione relaxed in his hold, letting him move her as he wanted her. Her legs slipped around him almost naturally as he positioned her over his lap. She screamed as he thrust his hips, driving himself into her for the second time that evening.

"I mean to make a pack out of them." He flashed her that feral grin of his as he used his hands still gripping her hips painfully hard to rock her against his motions. "I mean to become the first alpha the Wizarding world has seen in hundreds of years. Which brings us back to you, and your question about my possessiveness."

She dropped her head down against his throat, scraping at his pulse with her teeth. "Is that to say," she asked, her mouth moving against his skin as she asked in a breathless whisper, "you intend to bite me, too?"

He snickered pulling on her harder, still. "Not unless you ask. You miss the point. If you're  _mine_ , regardless if you're full wolf or not, you would effectively be the alpha female."

She sank her teeth into his skin to muffle a shriek, her muscles trembling with the way he was grinding her over his thrusts. From the primal sound of satisfaction that rumbled out of him, she understood he liked her teeth pressing into him like this.

"Means if you wanted them, too, I'd permit it."

Withdrawing from his throat, she lifted her dazed attention to his face. "Because you'd still be in control. It doesn't ping on your possessive streak because of the awareness that it's only happening because you're  _permitting_ it."

He spoke through clenched teeth as he slipped one hand up from her hips to grip into a fist in her hair, pulling her head back. "There you go with that sexy brain of yours, again."

She imagined the smile she worked up in response to his words was just as feral as the one she was already so accustomed to seeing from him.

"Now shut up and come for me, Sweetness."

Nodding, she forced herself to move against him more roughly, still. Fine tremors shivered through her as her body tensed and she was rewarded with an eager, rumbling sound tearing out of him.

He gripped her to him harder, his movements becoming sharper as she froze over him. Her body clenched tight around his thrusts, the sensation forcing him over the edge, as well.

She let out an ecstatic scream, not caring if the cry drew the attention of every Death Eater crawling about the Manor grounds. The way they trembled against each other, clinging tight as their orgasms tore through them, was too divine to care about  _anything_  else in that moment.

When it started to ebb, she became aware of his hands moving her again, rocking her in his lap as the tension drained from their bodies.

Fenrir eased her to a halt, collapsing sideways with her still in his embrace.

Swallowing hard, she caught her breath. "How do you keep doing that? I . . . the boys I've been with . . . they were a mess. Couldn't tell I was coming if their lives depended on it."

He shrugged, snickering. "First problem?  _Boys_." Smirking, he shifted closer, running the tip of his tongue along her lips. "Second problem?  _Humans_. Sure, they get the hang of a new partner after a time, but werewolves, well, we're a bit more sensitive than that. We can gauge things more easily, respond more readily."

Well, so much for thinking the simultaneous orgasm was a myth. He'd just proved that wrong for the second time.

"So," she started, trying to collect herself as he shifted again, rolling her onto her back to bury his head between her thighs. A startled moan escaped her as he—for the second time that night, yet again with all this 'second time' nonsense, and exactly as promised in the corridor—lapped over the slick, tender flesh, intent on licking her clean. "If you mean to bite them, and I get to have them if you let me . . . ?"

Lifting his head from his task, he slid one hand down, his fingers stroking her currently too-sensitive clit, and chuckling a little at the way she jumped and shivered beneath his touch. "Aye. Just like you're thinking. You'd have three werewolves, climbing the bloody walls with wanting to shag your brains out."

She nodded, struggling to catch her breath, still.

"Only one thing I want you to do for me, Sweetness," he said, smirking as he trailed his gaze over her shivering form again and again.

"Just one?"

Now it was his turn to nod. "Keep my plans to yourself."

"You're . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she groaned, shifting against the bed to press herself to his stroking fingers. "You're not going to tell them?"

"Oh, no. See, Wizarding world's filled their heads with only the downsides of being what I am." Fenrir lowered himself carefully, his mouth right over his working hand as he went on. "You and me? We're going to show them the perks of being a werewolf."

She was a bit dazzled by his scheming, aware, already, that he was trying to wind her up for a third go. "You're going to make them  _want_  to be bitten?"

That feral grin of his curving his lips, he nodded. "We.  _We_  are going to make them want to be bitten."

Pulling his hand away, he once more buried his mouth between her thighs, relishing the away she screamed and sank her fingers into his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

She awoke to a breathed rumbling sound in her ears. Uttering a sleepy little noise of her own, Hermione stretched, smiling even before she opened her eyes. How strange, really, that she should be so blissful, so at peace when she'd betrayed those who counted on her. That she should feel this . . . tranquil knowing she'd turned her back on the Light. But there went the reminder that she was broken by it all, she supposed, because those thoughts had little whispering tagalongs. The soft, trailing murmurs pointed out that yes, they'd counted on her . . . without thought or consideration unless she  _wasn't_ there to plot a rescue or find a way out of, or in to, something. Counted on her while somehow never actually  _seeing_  her, or even viewing her as their equal.

They may never have meant it to appear so—they likely didn't even realize they thought it, she knew—but they'd just valued what she could do for them, only to still treat her as less-than. Loved ones weren't supposed to do that to each other. And yes, there was a strange sort of peace in being here, where she  _was_  only valued for what she could do for them, where she  _would_  be treated as less-than, but where no one would lie to her _or_  themselves about it.

She never imagined she'd value transparency so much, but there it was. It was inherent in her very existence within these walls that she couldn't trust those around her. She knew Voldemort would plot to off her as soon as she'd outlived her usefulness.

But these were all open, bald-faced truths. No convenient, shielding platitudes.

Opening her eyes at last, she watched through half-closed lids as Fenrir pushed back the blanket and sat up. Watched the morning light dancing across his muscles in a rather glorious display as he linked his hands over his head and stretched.

That was why it was so fortunate that this revelation had come to light about what she was, about what Fenrir Greyback wanted from her. She was his now, as he'd said—he'd be the alpha, she his alpha female. Whether she chose the bite or not, he'd not let Voldemort do away with her so easily when the time came. He'd hide her, or help her run. She could sense it, somehow. This pack he wanted to build was too important to him, and if she was part of it, if she helped him build it, then she was even more important to him.

As he stood, he turned just enough to peer over his shoulder at her. "What's that grin for so early in the morning?"

Hermione pressed her hand over her face, snickering. She hadn't even noticed she'd been making an expression, at all. "Just appreciating the view."

His brows drew upward as he shot a glance down his own back as best he could, clearly trying to see what she was seeing.

"And," she said, rolling onto her stomach and bracing her chin against her fists, "I was considering this thing with Rowle and Mulciber."

"Oh?" Despite the sudden stern look he gave her, amusement edged his tone. He spun back to face his witch and dropped down beside the bed, putting himself eye-level with her. "And I'm supposed to take kindly to the fact that  _my_ female is thinking of other men when she's in bed with me?"

"You are the one who talked about me having three werewolves climbing the walls for how much they want me."

He winced and shook his head. "Did say that, didn't I?"

Biting her lip, she nodded. Using her elbows, she pulled herself across the bed to get closer to him. She flicked her gaze down to touch on his mouth as she went on, "And anyway, what I meant was that I was thinking getting them to see things your way might not be as difficult as you believe."

Fenrir let out a little, rumbling growl of approval as he leaned nearer, but then held still, evidently waiting for her to narrow the distance between them. "Go on."

"Well, Rowle and I already have a little bit of a history, and I think it was sort of obvious from Mulciber's drunken buffoonery last night that he's already taken a shine to me." She shrugged, brushing her mouth over his. "We just use that."

"Mmm." He gently snapped his teeth around the plump center of her lower lip. "You must think highly of yourself."

She laughed, slapping at his shoulder. "No, I don't mean they'd volunteer for the bite _just_ so they can shag me. Bear with me, here, Fen." She didn't bother to pause when his brows shot up and he echoed  _Fen_ in a questioning whisper. "It's not about me, at all, but yes, those two do seem fairly ruled by their libidos . . . we use  _that._  What I'm suggesting is a little show-and-tell. As I said, it's not about me, it'll be about them seeing with their own eyes how a woman comes away from the experience of shagging a werewolf."

"Of course you realize ordinary humans are sort of, hmm, how can I—they're boring. Ordinary humans are _boring_  to a werewolf. Once they're turned, the only not-ordinary human female in their vicinity will be you, Sweetness. So, in the end, it is about  _you_."

Hermione folded her lips inward, holding back a smirk. "Oh, really? Funny, that."

Fenrir harrumphed, but kissed her, anyway. "I've created a monster, I have."

She sat up as he stood up and turned, finally, crossing the floor toward the en-suite washroom. He left the door open between them while he started the shower and stepped in.

As she moved the blanket, a bundle of smooth, shiny fabric tumbled along the bed. Lifting it in her fingers, she found herself staring down at a full-length black slip. Silk? Holding it against herself, she noted the garment was made for a taller woman—the bottom hem would pool around her feet in an unintentionally dramatic way.

"So, what's this, then?" she called out, raising her voice to be heard over the spray of the water.

"What's what?"

"This slip-dress nonsense I'm looking at?"

"Oh, one of the elves popped in with that just before you woke up. Said the Dark Lord won't have you flouncing about in his presence in Muggle attire, so, he 'very  _charitably_  donated' that to you from Narcissa Malfoy's wardrobe."

"This isn't even proper robes!"

His voice was a bit clearer—she imagined he was poking his head out—as he answered, "In his eyes, you're not a 'proper witch,' so there's probably some joke about that in the gesture. Oh, and after we've nipped down to the kitchens to eat, he requests your presence."

"Requests, he says. Like I've a choice."

Fenrir snickered, his voice muffled by the spray once more as he said, "I know, right?"

Hermione arched a brow, rising from the bed with the item in question folded over one arm. Coming to stand before the mirror above the bureau, she held the slip up against her naked form and inspected her reflection. Shifting to hold the slip in place with one hand, she tangled the fingers of the other in her hair and swept it up into a sloppy knot on the back of her head, baring her neck and shoulders.

Smirking, she imagined crossing paths with Mulciber and Rowle like this.

"Actually, I think this will do nicely."

* * *

Hermione was going to pretend she didn't notice the way Lucius Malfoys' brows shot up his forehead at first sight of her as she moved along the corridor. The pale-haired wizard was stationed outside the door to the study where her so-called requested meeting with Voldemort was about to take place.

She wondered briefly if he was going to sit in on the meeting. Of course that was logical—the serpentine wizard probably still didn't trust that she wasn't a spy, regardless of the veritaserum interrogation yesterday. She also realized this was probably the first time the Malfoy patriarch had become cognizant that she was no longer the child he'd first met in Flourish and Blotts all those years ago.

The new, mischievous part of her that had been awakened with her deliberate—if slightly unceremonious—fall from grace wondered if he looked so jarred just now because seeing her like this reminded him his son, being in the same school year as her despite that she was nearly a year older than Draco, was no longer a child. Or perhaps it was more  _base_ than that. Like wondering what she really looked like beneath the layer of silk. Or perhaps even something comically humanizing. Oh, no! The Mudblood has breasts! That sort of nonsense.

After all, it was hardly as if a bra went with the garment Voldemort had given her to wear. Though, now she was given to wonder if the Dark Lord, himself, didn't have a slightly pervy side to him with this little joke of his.

Schooling his features, Lucius frowned while she drew across the floor, the too-long hem of the slip whispering around her feet with her movements. "Isn't that Narcissa's?"

Hermione desperately wanted to react deadpan, but she couldn't help smiling as she replied, "You recognize your own wife's undergarments? Good on you! Death Eaters really are a sharp lot, aren't you?"

He scowled at her, a truly menacing expression. In any other circumstance before now, she might've found it frightening, but knowing he wouldn't dare lay a finger on her just now because Voldemort considered her useful for the time being was strangely freeing from that fear.

Realizing the meeting would be more tense than necessary if he spent the entire time glaring at her from the corner of his eye, she held up her hands in a placating gesture. "Not my choice, Mr. Malfoy."

His grey eyes narrowed as he weighed her statement. Clearly understanding that could only mean one person had made this decision for her, he let out a breath and nodded.

Gripping his fingers around her arm as he had yesterday when he'd led her before the Dark Lord in the first place, he grasped the doorknob with his other hand. "Shall we?"

The witch uttered an airy sound as she nodded. "Once more stated as though I've a choice."

Lucius pushed open the door, guiding the young woman in a step ahead of him. As he moved her, the back of his hand brushed the side of her breast through the silk garment.

Halting mid-stride, she tilted her head, catching the too-tall wizard in a sidelong glare as she said, "Watch it, there,  _sir_."

He answered her challenging tone with a tight-lipped expression, his teeth bared ever so slightly. " _Completely_  unintentional, Miss Granger, I assure you."

"Are you two quite finished?" Voldemort's hissing voice cut into their notably angsty exchange. The squabbling pair looked over to see the Dark Lord stationed behind a grand desk that dominated the room.

"Ask him, he's the one manhandling me."

An angry sound emitting from the back of his throat, Lucius tugged her over to one of the seats before the desk and pushed her down into it. "Forgive me, My Lord. The woman is even feistier now than she was yesterday."

Hermione couldn't help one last quip before granting Voldemort her full attention. "You know, Mr. Malfoy, that nearly sounded as though you were growling just now. It's a wonder you and Greyback don't get along better."

That menacing scowl returned and he gave her arm a harsh squeeze before relinquishing his hold on her. Oh, she'd known such a comment would strike a nerve, not just because it was insulting to nearly any pure-blood wizard to be lumped in with a werewolf in any fashion, but because she—a Mudblood who'd already reprimanded  _him_  for an accidental inappropriate touch—had, for all he knew, spent the night being 'brutally' ravaged by the named werewolf. He was, barring whatever torments Voldemort was putting him through for losing that bloody prophecy, one used to being in control. She was confusing him, and that was testing his patience.

Hermione folded her lips inward, trying not to laugh. She succeeded, though the notice  _was_ quite amusing to her.

When she finally did turn her attention to the wizard behind the desk, he seemed to be waiting for them to both fix their gazes on him. In her periphery, she could see that he indeed had company, already, in the room. She didn't move her eyes from him to see who they were, but two robed figures stood at his shoulders. From what she could discern with her currently limited scope, one of them was definitely Severus Snape, the other might be Antonin Dolohov. She couldn't help a flickering thought if Dolohov knew the faint, purple-pink scar that was partly hidden by the slip—the one that slashed diagonally across her body from her shoulder to her opposite hip—was from the curse he'd struck her with during the Battle in the Department of Mysteries.

Oh, well. Didn't quite matter very much, she reminded herself, keeping her bored gaze level on Voldemort's.

His hands folded under his chin, ol' snake-face said, "All right, Mudblood. You've got your first chance. Tell me something useful."

"How useful are you looking for?"

Voldemort pursed his lips. He was rather upset with himself that truly and honestly, if not for her detestable blood status, he might actually like her. "Useful enough that you might spend a few days here without a threat of death looming over your head."

"Oh, a few days! Your generosity is truly remarkable." She could absolutely feel the eyes of all the wizards in the room going wide at her quip.

Voldemort held her gaze, his serpentine eyes unblinking. The little brat was actually trying to bargain with him! But, her surety did make him wonder just how useful the things she knew were. And how many of these things of varying degrees in usefulness did she know?

"Two weeks, then?"

Her brows shot up. He was entertaining this? Well, he must be intrigued. "Tell you what," she said, aware not everyone of his inner circle might know as much as they thought they did about their leader's machinations. "We'll put a pin in the 'two weeks' offer, give me a quill and paper. See, I know many things that will help you, but in this instance, I will name  _the_  most useful one. You decide what you think is a . . . fair amount of unthreatened time based on that."

Catching Lucius' gaze, Voldemort nodded toward the quill, ink bottle and stack of parchment on one corner of the desk. "And you're so sure I won't dispose of you after you share this most useful bit of information?"

"Yes, because you're greedy." Hermione didn't even blink as she spoke. Her tone was not malicious, nor even angry, but completely matter-of-fact. "You'll want to know it all. And you'll want my input on countermeasures depending on future actions the other side takes."

"Rather sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"You wouldn't be the first person to suggest that." The witch shrugged as Lucius handed her the dipped quill and a sheet of parchment. "Admit it, you're curious."

"You intended it so, do not act surprised."

Nodding, Hermione turned carefully in her seat, resting the page on the armrest—away from the prying eyes of the Death Eaters in the room—and jotted down a single word. Blowing on the ink to help it dry, she handed back the quill. Now, she did flick her gaze about the room. They were all watching her. This was such an intriguing predicament she found herself in. That third Death Eater was definitely Antonin Dolohov, and she thought she'd caught him looking at the scar that peeked out around the thin, black strap and disappeared beneath the low neckline.

She glanced at the pale, flame-like slash marring her skin and then met Dolohov's eyes. "Oh, yes. That is your handiwork, sir."

He remained silent, his dark eyes narrowing at her words. She thought perhaps he was wondering how she'd survived. He didn't need to know just how much effort had gone into her  _not_ dying from his mystery-curse. If he ever deigned to ask, she just might tell him all it had done was leave this mark on her.

She was waving the paper as she breathed against the drying ink, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape both observing her with expressions as though they'd never seen her before. Oh, Hermione thought with a wistful air, being wicked was _fun_! She'd never realized before.

Everything before had been about doing the right thing, doing the good thing, even if it hurt her. And she was sick to her eyeballs of being hurt.

Folding the parchment, she held it across the desktop toward Voldemort. Eyeing her steadily, he slid the page from her fingers, merely holding it for a moment. Clearly noting her cautious gesture, he lifted the top of the paper just enough to spy the word she'd written.

A whirl of activity happened, then. The Dark Lord slammed the parchment down on the desktop, his skeletal fingers holding it closed as he snapped at his Death Eaters, his gaze never wavering from hers. "Leave us!" Though the three appeared confused at the command, they didn't hesitate to follow Voldemort's bidding.

After the door closed behind them, Voldemort gave a flick of the Elder Wand, casting a silencing charm around them. Hermione liked to think of those more as anti-eavesdropping wards, but whatever one might call them, she now found herself in a soundproof bubble with the Dark Lord.

He held up the parchment, that single word she'd jotted down staring back at her.  _Horcrux_. "Tell me exactly how much you know and your life remains threat-free until I have _won_."

Hermione arched a brow. "Swear it."

"You are pushing your luck, Mudblood."

"Perhaps I am, but if victory is truly what matters to you, then an Unbreakable Vow not to contemplate killing me until  _after_  you've secured that should be a small price to pay."

As a handful of minutes ago, he merely stared at her for a few heartbeats. Damn her, she'd been correct all along. Her quick-wittedness, her intellect, her secrets . . . . Everything she held in that head of hers—everything he might lose if he tried to torture it out of her, everything he could not readily access given her skill at shielding her thoughts—was too valuable to do away with lightly, or as a result of some brash, momentary flaring of anger.

Temporarily dispelling the charm around them, he called toward the door, "Severus return. We have need of your assistance."

The Dark Lord didn't need to know that the witch seated before him had just inwardly breathed a sigh of relief over him not turning the Elder wand on her in a lethal flash of acid-green.


End file.
